Weight of the World
by schweinsty
Summary: Kirk has doubts about himself after a nightmare. McCoy helps him. Gen. Rated for language.


Disclaimer: Star Trek doesn't belong to me.

AN: Written for the Star Trek Reboot Drabble Challenge on livejournal.

Weight of the World

McCoy knows exactly who it'll be before he even opens his eyes and slaps at the door controls. There's foolhardy, then there's suicidal, and then there's 'Waking Doctor McCoy up at two in the morning by pounding on his door.' There's only two officers brave enough to do so for anything other than an all-out attack on the ship, and the Vulcan's far too polite.

Jim doesn't wait for an invitation inside; he stumbles in, crash-lands on McCoy's desk chair, and groans.

"I need another dose, Bones."

McCoy takes a deep, calming breath that doesn't do much calming before he sits up. He really, really hopes that Jim gets better about these types of things once he reaches thirty. Because so help him God, if he has to do this until Jim makes Admiral, one of them is going to wind up dead – and it sure as hell isn't going to be him.

"No."

"God_damn_it, Bones."

If this were in the daytime – or whatever they call it up here in space - and they were on the bridge, McCoy would smirk and tell Jim to stop borrowing his curses, and Spock would pipe up and explain how, indeed, when two humans are exposed to each other for long periods of time, their familiarity often causes them to adopt one anothers' lingual characteristics, and that possibly the captain would benefit from fraternizing with other officers – perhaps those currently located on the opposite end of the ship.

But it's not daytime and Jim's not laughing, he's clinging to that chair like it's a life raft, and he's shaking.

"Who was it this time? Spock? Sulu?" He pauses as Kirk looks down. "Me?"

"Sulu and Chekov." Jim sighs in defeat and scoots the chair forward, lets his forehead thump onto the edge of the desk as if to remind himself of where he is. Doesn't stop his voice from shaking. "The recon they went on last month – when they crashed into that lake. In the – dream, they couldn't fix the shields in time. When we got there, all we did was bring the bodies up."

McCoy has half a notion to grab his captain by the neck and toss him back into the hallway, but he doesn't. He can't. Because even if he knows that the doubts and fears of tonight will be distant memory by tomorrow morning, that Jim will find a way to get over this on his own like he has every other time his rather massive ego has decided to examine itself, this is still his friend, angsty and obnoxious and pathetic though he might be for the moment. And McCoy's never been able to just stand around while Jim is angsting and looking pathetic.

"It's just a dream, Jim. Sulu and Chekov are fine – better than you probably – and tucked away in their beds like I should be, this time of night. Damn it, Jim, you're not God; you can't protect your officers every minute – you have to learn to trust them to protect themselves."

For a minute, McCoy thinks Jim is going to get pissed and storm off, but Jim just looks up at him. He's stopped shaking, but he looks weary. Haggard. Like a man with a millstone tied around his neck.

"But what about next time? They're – Christ, Bones, they're so – young! You know, Chekov?" He chuckles mirthlessly. "Everyone keeps a picture under their pillow – starfleet tradition, for luck, right? Uhura's got Spock, Spock's got Uhura, Sulu's got this hot little cutout in a bikini. Chekov? He's got one of his parents. I'm not sure he's even _shaving_ yet, for fuck's sake. I can't – I can't send him out like that. He's not-" Jim puts his head back down and picks at the threads at the bottom of his shirt. "I can't do this, Bones."

McCoy sighs and stands up. Slumped over like that, with the weight of the world – and nine hundred starfleet personnel – on his shoulders, Jim looks both far too young and far too old. McCoy pats Jim's shoulder with one hand and reaches for the box of sedatives on his nightstand with the other.

"Yes you can – and you will, Jim. Because if you don't, someone else will, and you won't be able to do anything about it then." He hands Jim one of the pills from the bottle. "Half a dose, Jim, I don't want you getting addicted."

The kid dry swallows it before McCoy can get him a glass, and, though he sleepily says he'll go back to his quarters now, he's out like a light before he even stands up. McCoy manhandles Jim into his own bed none too gently but with the ease of long practice before giving one last, longing look at the comfortable mattress and yawning. He knows he won't fall back asleep for hours, if then; dealing with Jim is worse than chugging a cup of coffee. Well, it's been a while since the sickbay night shift had a surprise inspection, and he has a big stack of paperwork waiting for him in his office.

Jim will come to terms with this, in time; he'll have to. And the nightmares will go with it, too. But until then, well...McCoy's got a good stock of sedatives, and that stack of paperwork is very, very high.


End file.
